


Keep Going (Forever I Will Roam)

by UnintelligentConversationalist



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Tim Drake, Blood and Violence, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dom Dick Grayson, Dom/sub, Hurt Tim Drake, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Lazarus Pit, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sub Tim Drake, Temporary Character Death, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnintelligentConversationalist/pseuds/UnintelligentConversationalist
Summary: Dick had always been a fever in Tim’s life. He could never rid himself of this devotion. Looking up at him now, seeing the man he was in this moment--the coldness in his eyes, lips pursed in displeasure--Tim wished he could quit him. How long had Tim been in love with Dick? How long had he allowed himself to surrender everything he was to this man? The realization burned within him, consuming in a way nothing else in his life could. Robin had been his greatest joy, but Dick was his soul.Tim swallowed again, his mouth felt dry, and the taste of ash coated his tongue. His life was dissolving. Nothing would ever be as it once was. The tears he held at bay spilled over onto his cheeks; his chest heaved as he cried.“I can fix this, please, Dick, I can fix everything!”Or: Batman dies, and things do not go as planned. Specifically, Dick fucks up.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Dick Grayson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. This is my first Batman universe fic. I am very nervous. I'm thinking this story will be roughly 4 chapters long, but my plot outline is ever-growing. Quarantine buzz is hitting hard. Dick is a bit...unhinged, but I hope everyone can understand where I'm going with this. He won't always be this volatile. Please excuse any mistakes!

In the scheme of things, Tim had anticipated this moment in some way. His lungs and chest tightened as an impending panic attack loomed over him, a sinking pit was building in his stomach as he fully grasped the situation. His tongue felt heavy in his throat, and small, heaved breaths that choked from his broken heart's depths spilled from his mouth. He had been blind, unwilling to believe this would be the natural decision after Bruce’s death.

_Bruce was not dead!_

There was barely any emotion on Dick’s face besides a touch of annoyance at the corners of his eyes. Tim hated that expression; he hated the feelings that drowned him because of Dick's unhappiness, but it was all to frequent a look these days. He clenched his hands into fists; his skin felt clammy, and chills raised across his bod as he opened his mouth to say something, anything. Tim wanted to beg, fall to his knees to take back what was happening at this moment. He had known, even while denying the possibility. If only Bruce were here. If only someone would defend him.

_Bruce was dead!_

_No!_

The war within himself burned. Tim _knew_ Bruce lived. Stuck in time, but still alive.

“Dick, please,” Was that his voice? He wet his lips, swallowing a sob in his throat. “Don’t do this.”

He couldn’t look at Damian at this moment, wouldn’t look at him. Tim could only imagine what he would see on that child’s face. The glee, the enjoyment he took at hurting Tim. The boy had had a self-satisfied smirk on his face since that morning. His grin cold and sharp in a way that caused Tim to panic. Damian had bided his time, cornering him in the mansion's depths too dark for anyone to notice. _‘How does it feel?’_ Damian had asked, _‘knowing you will lose everything.’_ Dread had filled Tim’s gut at those words. The boy had pushed on, his hand large and firm on Tim’s chest, forcing him back against the wall. He had leaned in close, his green eyes filled with malicious intent. _‘Worthless Drake, playing all this time. Masquerading. You are insignificant. How father ever allowed you to become Robin; you’re_ pathetic _.’_ He’d paused briefly before speaking again: _‘Arkham awaits you.’_

Tim choked on another sob. Was that the outcome if he continued to search for Bruce? Arkham? An existence filled with padded walls, straight jackets, and doses of medication that destroyed his mind until he could no longer remember his name

“I can fix it, Dick—”

“Tim,” Dick spoke for the first time in what felt like eons. Tim glanced up sharply, his eyes watering, pleading with him to take back his decision. “Surely, you understand?” There was no emotion in his brother’s voice, nothing caring in how he looked at Tim. “You are sick, obsessed; Arkham is the best option.”

Dick had always been a fever in Tim’s life. He could never rid himself of this devotion. Looking up at him now, seeing the man he was in this moment--the coldness in his eyes, lips pursed in displeasure--Tim wished he could quit him. How long had Tim been in love with Dick? How long had he allowed himself to surrender everything he was to this man? The realization burned within him, consuming in a way nothing else in his life could. Robin had been his greatest joy, but Dick was his soul.

Tim swallowed again, his mouth felt dry, and the taste of ash coated his tongue. His life was dissolving. Nothing would ever be as it once was. The tears he held at bay spilled over onto his cheeks; his chest heaved as he cried.

_“I can fix it, please, Dick, I can fix everything!”_

A gruff sound came from Dick, and Tim glanced up. He was frowning, and disappointment etched across his elegant brows. “I wanted you to be my equal, Tim. I wanted you by my side as we stood over Gotham together” Dick stood up tall, rolling his broad shoulders back and clenching his fists, a small smirk quirked at the corner of his mouth, “But seeing you like this…I’m not sure if I can remember why.” His posture shifted some, enough that Tim wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t paying as much attention as he was right now. The hairs on Tim's arms raised as a wash of fear ran through him because Dick had positioned himself as if ready to attack.

“Dick, no, please-I’m not lying, he’s alive!”

Dick’s voice was deadly quiet when he spoke, “I will not tell you again.” He watched him with an intensity in his eyes that caused Tim to take a quick step back. “Taking you to Arkham is what’s best for you, Timbo, and Damian taking up Robin’s cape is what’s best for me now.” A dead silence followed behind Dick’s words.

Tim’s face crumbled as he sobbed, and he looked away in shame. His hands trembled as he slid them down his chest to pull at his too-large sweater's fraying edge. The color a deep Nightwing blue. He could remember Dick’s smile when he’d given the garment to Tim. _‘For you, Timbers, I worry about all the black you wear.’_ His voice had been warm, and his hand strong and reassuring against the back of Tim’s neck. The Dick at that moment would never leave Tim. Would protect him endlessly against the harshness of the world.

Tim’s hand grasped at his chest, his heart sucking a thick, uneven beat. He couldn’t stop crying. “ _I’m not crazy!”_ Who was this man? “I don’t-Dick I don’t understand--,”

“Tt, Drake, is it not obvious?” Damian spoke for the first time, cutting him off; his voice slashed the bat cave's tension like a whip. He was tearing into Tim’s defenses without care. He looked up sharply at the boy; Damian’s eyes were dark and filled with joy at finally destroying Tim. He was taking everything Tim had preciously guarded within his heart. “You are no longer worthy of carrying the title of Robin. I told you, did I not? Masquerading.” His voice was like acid, the grin stretching across his dark features— _so much like Bruce—_ vindictive _._ “Father is dead, and you are crazed. You hold no place within this house any longer.”

Tim looked to Dick, but the man was silent, his mouth a grim line. His features were ever unchanging. Tim waited; he was desperate for Dick to come to his defense and ready to fall to his knees and beg if it would make Dick care for him.

_Bruce was not dead._

Tim stumbled back, tripping over his feet as Dick stepped forward in a smooth motion of intent, his hand coming out to grasp Tim’s sweater. He sucked in a breath as fear filled him again. Who was this man? Damian fell in behind Dick, and their bodies towered over Tim’s small form.

“Dick, please—,,” Tim tried again as Dick moved ever closer, causing Tim to scramble away as his body tightening with the need to run. “Dick, I can save him. I can save Bruce. He’s not dead!” His eyes were filled with wells of hurt, spilling over onto the floor below. Tim was scared. “Don’t send me there, I’m not, I’m not crazy! Why won’t you believe me!?”

Anger flashed across Dick’s face. “Bruce is dead.”

Tim’s cries were loud and ugly when he fell over his feet, scooting back on the floor as he began to flee. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._ His hands scraped across the rough ground, which was sharp and painful against his soft skin. He didn’t want this to be real. This moment could not be happening.

Dick pressed on, bearing down on Tim’s quivering form. The deadly grace that possessed Dick’s movements was unfamiliar, and there was nothing left of the acrobatic, poised elegance of the Nightwing Tim was accustomed. The man moving towards him had taken up Batman's mantle, and everything he had been before seemed to have died with Bruce.

Tim kept crying, harsh sobs that shook his lean frame. “Dick, don’t—don’t do this, please. I’m sorry. I can fix everything. Just tell me, Dick. Tell me how to fix it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please don’t hurt me— _oh God!_ ” He let out a short scream as Dick lunged for him, but Tim rolled himself to the side and scooted further away to watch as Dick slid against the cave's damp floor.

Damian had stopped moving towards them, leaning his ever-growing frame against one of the medical beds; that awful grin still covered his face. The boy’s excited laugh echoed across the cavern.

Dick’s eyes were dark, the blue in them entirely absorbed by his pupils. He turned towards Tim with a lethal grace. “Dick, Dick— _please!”_ He leaped for him again—Tim could not understand the reasoning behind Dick's actions. Arkham? Time seemed to slow down as Dick moved, and Tim’s reflexes finally kicked in.

He pressed down on his palms, lifting his body off the ground while his booted foot shot out to clock Dick in the jaw. He swung up in one motion, flipping back on his hands, and twisted into a crouch with his hands defensively in front of his chest. Dick fell back, swearing as he swiped his hand across his jaw to check Tim's attack feeling. Even in this situation, Dick was a sight to behold: tall and built, with hands like deadly weapons.

Tim’s mind shut off, and he gave in to his fighting instincts. He moved forward, not waiting for Dick to catch his bearings, and twirled in an arc that allowed his foot to slam into Dick’s side. His opponent's arm shot out, fist roaring towards Tim, but he pirouetted to the side in a smooth twirl—deftly missing the attack. In retaliation, Tim moved forward in quick succession, his fists coming out to hit hard against Dick’s sides in fierce jabs that caused the man to stumble back.

A look to the side saw Damian moving towards him with a dagger gripped tight in his hand.

None of this made sense. None of it. All this violence to see Tim locked away in Arkham?

Tim ran.

He moved towards the car at Flash levels of speed, not daring to look behind him for fear of what he would see. He pushed forward, and once close enough, leaped over the hood of his car. He slid against the vehicle's smooth body—unable to catch himself and slammed down on the ground. He smothered a cry as his knees fell hard against the concrete. Standing up, he pulled the door open and slid into the driver’s seat in tight movements. He felt emotionally numb as he pushed the car's automatic start button and shifted the vehicle into reverse.

When Tim finally looked up and out the front windshield, he froze.

Dick stood stock still in front of Tim’s car, and there was genuine emotion showing on his face. He could see the man’s lips moving, but the exterior of the vehicle muffled his words. Dick looked like he was crying, falling apart simultaneously, as if only then realizing what he’d done. His mouth shaped the same words over and over, and Tim finally discerned what he was saying, _“Baby bird, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”_

Tim didn’t notice he was crying again until the sound of agonized sobbing reached his ears. He was afraid of this man. This man was not Dick Grayson, the person Tim had been near in love with since he saw him quadrupole somersaulting off the edge of a building at six years old. His Dick Grayson would never strip Robin from him—would never put him in Arkham.

Tim pressed his foot down on the gas, and the tires screeched as the car shot back too quickly, but Tim didn’t wait. He shifted the car into drive and roared out of the cave entrance; the waterfall bashed against the car's roof as the vehicle shot out into the night's blackness. The rear tires skidded out of control as the car swerved before Tim straightened the steering wheel out, and the shadow of trees flew by with the lights of Gotham city blinding in the distance.

He felt broken.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick is unhinged and wild. Tim will never recover.  
> As always, this is a work in progress--please excuse any errors.

Tim dumped the car four blocks over from his safe house, too afraid of being followed; he got on the closest bus and changed routes until he was certain no one was tailing him. 

Finally believing himself to be in the clear, he sat down on one of the worn benches that ran in rows down the bus's cab and curled in on himself against the cold shell. He rested his head against the window; his breath steaming up the glass as he attempted to catch his breath. There was a slight tremble in his body, and the sharp ache in his chest wouldn’t go away; nothing made sense. He’d said that phrase over and over as he faced off against Dick, Arkham? Had his attempts to prove that Bruce still lived pushed Dick to lock Tim away in that hell hole? 

He’d hoped the man would listen to him and wanted to believe that Dick was on his side. Yet, the image of Dick’s fists coming at him in an attack replayed over in his mind. It was unimaginable that the man Tim had loved since he was a child turned on him as he had; Dick’s betrayal tore at his heart and left a sharp ache in his chest. 

‘ _I wanted you to be my equal, Tim. I wanted you by my side as we stood over Gotham together.’_ Dick’s words played over and over in his head, haunting him as Tim slipped into a daze remembering what had taken place the evening prior, had that interaction driven Dick to such drastic measures? 

_He laid the information out for Dick, taking the time to point out the clues Bruce had left behind, and, so far, Dick hadn’t stopped him from pushing on; if anything, he seemed receptive to Tim’s discovery—then again, Tim hadn’t glanced up from the documents, as he explained his findings, in the last hour. Disregarding that information, Tim hoped this meant Dick believed in him._

_‘Is this all?’ Dick suddenly asked; his voice was tense, and when Tim finally glanced up at him, his brother sat stiffly behind Bruce’s desk. His eyes were dark as he stared Tim down, and he looked like he wanted to be doing anything else but listening to Tim at that moment._

_‘I-no? Not really? There are a few more important details, but we can pick it up later if you have something--,” Tim flinched as the slam of Dick’s fist against Bruce’s desk cut him off. He stared at Dick in startled surprise, taking in the man’s tense shoulders, his hands squeezed tight against the top of the desk. ‘D-Dick?’ Tim asked, momentarily frozen still._

_‘This delusion…’ Dick scorned and slouched back into the chair; he ran a hand through his dark locks and let out a deep sigh._ _‘Enough, Tim. Bruce is dead, and he isn’t coming back—you need to accept this.’ Sitting back up, he leaned his hulking form towards Tim across the desk. ‘I will not repeat myself, Tim. Let this go; you are treading a fine line.’_

_Stumbling back in shock, Tim tripped backward into the large, leather chair that sat in front of the desk. ‘He isn’t dead,’ He whispered, his mouth feeling too full of words to know where to start his defense. ‘Just-I, if you’d look at the information, please, it’s right in front of you—the facts and logic, Dick, it’s there!’ He was shaking with the force of his outburst but pushed on. ‘He’s stuck in time, yes—that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Dick, but Bruce is leaving clues. He knows we’ll find him, Dick—he knows we’ll get him out.’ His hands squeezed the chair's arms with brutal force as he waited with bated breath, his eyes locked on Dick’s fury-rising form._

_Mentally, he pleaded with Dick to look down at the information presented in front of him, which Tim had been explaining deeply just moments before. Had Dick not paid attention this whole time?_

_Tim knew he hadn't when Dick brushed aside Tim’s work with a careless move of his hand. He watched as Dick’s powerful form stood up from the chair and bit back a whimper of want as Dick stretched his arms above his head, his lean muscles rippling under the tightly-fitted shirt._

_Dick dropped his arms, turning his attention towards Tim in the chair, he moved slowly around the desk like an animal tracking its prey. In an instant, he was standing next to Tim, his tall form looming over Tim’s smaller one. ‘This conversation is over; I cannot keep doing this, Timmy.’ His voice was soft, almost gentle, leading Tim into a false sense of safety. ‘You are unwell, and I blame myself for not realizing how hard you have taken Bruce’s death.’_

_Tim froze as Dick placed a steady hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly in a way that was once reassuring, but now felt like a warning of possible repercussions if Tim kept pursuing the topic of Bruce being alive. ‘Harder than any of us it seems…’ Dick murmured, and his voice felt like liquid silk running up Tim’s spine._

_Tim attempted to lean away, opening his mouth to refute him, but Dick’s grip tightened almost painfully on his shoulder. Tim let out a gasp of pain that quickly turned into a shudder as Dick slid his hand up along Tim’s shoulder to grasp the back of his head, threading his fingers through Tim’s dark hair. ‘Dick?’ Tim panted out. He felt hazy._

_Dick pulled harshly against Tim’s hair with a growl, angling his head back until he was forced to stare into Dick’s face, and, like a skittish animal, Tim froze. His brother’s eyes were a deep, encompassing-blue, and a frightening smile stretched across his face. ‘Listen to me, Tim.’ Dick breathed out, his hand tightening in Tim’s hair as he moved to stand in front of the smaller boy. ‘Bruce. Is. Dead.’_

_Tim let out a wounded noise, his eyes falling closed as disappointment bloomed in his chest._ Of course, h _ow could he have expected anything else but denial from Dick? ‘Please, if you’d just listen--,’ Tim let out a pained cry as Dick’s hand gripped his hair harshly and pulled his head back further._

_‘No more; we are done, Tim.’_

_Tim’s breath pushed out in thick pants as his cheeks flushed with a rush of embarrassment at Dick’s manhandling. The man’s grip on his hair was tight, with a strength bellied in his body that left Tim gasping as Dick pulled his head back even more. The move left Tim’s neck open and vulnerable; the position forcing him into submission._

_‘You’re scaring me.’ Dick’s rumble seemed to come from his chest's depths as he leaned in close towards Tim’s raised face. ‘You’re pushing the edges of crazy, Baby Bird.’_

_Tim could smell Dick’s cologne, a heady scent that caused his head to swim until he couldn’t think. ‘I’m not crazy.’ He forced out after a bit, finding it difficult to form words at that moment. With Dick this close, Tim couldn’t focus on anything else, and heat in his belly bloomed with a strange feeling attached. ‘Dick, everything is in those documents.’_

_‘Do not make me repeat myself, baby.’ Dick’s voice was thick like the words were stuck in the back of his throat, but his breath was sweet and warm against Tim’s face. ‘Bruce is dead, and we must move forward.’ He leaned in even closer, his broad shoulders—shoulders that Tim once hugged in safety—blocked Tim’s view of the room. He couldn’t help but shiver at the unrelenting strength in Dick’s body, and Tim let out a meek sound when Dick wrenched his head to the side and bared his unprotected neck to his personal view._

_A delighted smile lit up Dick’s face, something animalistic with pleasure at Tim’s submission, and leaned in closer to brush his lips against Tim’s neck's soft skin. He shivered at Dick’s mouth's first touch, goosebumps running up his arms as Dick’s teeth nipped against his throat. ‘Take the next few nights off; let yourself rest, and let these delusions go away.’ His request held no room for argument._

_Dick moved his head away from Tim’s neck and pulled on his hair until, once again, Tim’s head was pulled back against the chair's back, his eyes forced up to lock on Dick’s face. ‘Do you understand?’ Tim couldn’t look away from Dick’s eyes, even as his body fought for air against his brother’s forced claim. He couldn’t remember the question. His body was too consumed by Dick’s encompassing power; small noises ripped themselves out of Tim’s chest, and his breath came out in pants as an overwhelming feeling of need built inside him._

_‘Tim, baby, don’t make me repeat myself again.’ A flush spread over Tim’s skin at the pet name. Lost to his mind once more, Tim flinched in pain when Dick pulled sharply at his hair. ‘Do you understand?’ Dick’s fingers released his hair some, and Tim tilted his head back in willful submission, unable to look away as triumph lit a flame in Dick’s too-blue eyes._

_This interaction had crossed a line for them, not just the conversation, but Dick’s handling of him and Tim’s slow, willing subservience had changed something in their dynamic._

_Dick’s hand tightened in Tim’s hair again when Tim attempted a nod of agreement. ‘Tell me, Baby Bird; I want to hear you out loud.’ Tim was floating and breathless in a way he couldn’t remember ever being._

_Tim’s arm shook when he finally moved; one of his hands came out to grasp at Dick’s shoulder, feeling the soft, gray fabric of his shirt, and held on to Dick with a desperate grip. His other hand lifted to hold the wrist of Dick’s hand in his hair, feeling the muscles flex under Tim’s loose hold. He opened his mouth to speak, licking his dry lips, but his mind went hazy as Dick moved in close again; he couldn’t get the words out._

_Leaning in, Dick rubbed his rough, stubble covered jaw along Tim’s cheeks and left a trail of red along Tim’s soft, pale flesh. ‘Come on, Timmy-bird, tell me what I want to hear.’ The growling murmur of Dick’s voice penetrated Tim’s mind enough to bring him back to awareness._

_‘Yes,’ he thickly rasped out._

_‘Yes, what?’ Dick inquired, Tim’s short answer not enough to satiate his demand, and moved his free hand to rest on the arm of Tim’s chair. Dick’s face was so close, his mouth mere inches away from Tim’s; the warmth of his breath spread across Tim’s face, and he couldn’t stop himself from whimpering when Dick brushed their lips together._

_What was the question again?_

_A startled, painful cry pulled from Tim’s chest when Dick yanked back on his hair, a dark snarl rising in the man’s throat. Tim tried to tear away; his hand was tight on Dick’s wrist as he attempted to pull the man’s hand out of his hair. ‘I understand!’ he cried, a desperate desire spreading across his body. ‘I won’t bring it up again. Bruce isn’t-he isn't coming back!’_

_Dick’s handsome features were grinning with victory as Tim stared up at him. Was this really Dick?_

_‘Good boy.’ Dick congratulated as he let go of Tim’s hair. ‘I’m so proud of you.’ His hand rubbed along the boy’s scalp in a pseudo gentle fashion and slid along to cup Tim’s cheek; his thumb swiped back and forth along Tim’s lower lip._

_Tim couldn’t breathe, almost too afraid that the smallest motion of his chest moving in and out would break the intimate scene. ‘As I said, take the next few days off.’ Dick’s voice washed over the haze of Tim’s mind like a boiling heat. ‘We’ll discuss your duties once you’ve centered yourself.’ Dick’s hand slid down Tim’s face to wrap around his delicate throat; he squeezed tightly, causing a gasp of want out of Tim, before pulling away completely._

_Tim let out a noise of disappointment when Dick stepped away, and his body collapsed in on himself as Tim watched Dick move further away and towards the desk to gather the documents Tim had brought with him. In hindsight, Tim wasn’t even surprised when Dick tossed them in the trash, but it didn’t lessen the hurt._

_Finished with the task, Dick stood back to lean against the front of Bruce’s desk; his long legs stretched out in front of him, and his muscled arms crossed over his chest. ‘Go to bed, Timmy.’ He murmured softly._

_Ripping himself out of the chair, Tim stumbled towards the door and jerked it open. He couldn’t help but look back towards Dick’s intimidating form and clutched his hands against the door frame when his legs threatened to give out._

_Dick’s eyes were locked on Tim’s small frame; his hands clenched into fists at his side, almost like he wanted to reach out and grab Tim to pull him back. Once more, Dick's eyes were dark and unreadable, but the look on his face was filled with desire and want._

_Shaking himself and pushing away his longing to fall to his knees in submission at Dick’s feet, Tim slipped through the door and slammed it closed behind him. He felt like he’d just locked away a ferocious beast that would never be caged._

_And then everything imploded._

Coming back to reality, Tim was shaking in his seat as he stared unseeingly out the bus window. How was he so weak? Bruce chose him for Robin, had seen strength in Tim. An insurmountable force that had carried him through to stand by Batman’s side as his Robin. Yet, at the moment, it felt as though a knife was repeatedly being stabbed into his chest. As if a chasm had broken inside of him that he could not stitch together. 

Tim had lost everyone—Kon. Bart. Steph. Cass.—lost to the darkness of death, and he could not follow them. He was crying again—he wished he would stop crying, even with his palms pressed against his eyes to stop the fall, the tears still came. Everything was broken.

By the time he arrived at his penthouse, it was well into the morning's hours; the sun rose in the sky like a sudden burst, and the shock from what took place hours before finally hit him. He nearly fell to his knees as he entered the elegant lobby of his apartment complex. His civilian clothing allowed him to enter through the front instead of climbing in through his window. The bright lights and cream-colored walls of the lobby burned his vision, and the silver-flecked glass floor was showing too much of him in its reflection.

He waved a hand in dismissal at Charles, the front desk man, when he came forward to offer Tim a hand. “Master Timothy,” His voice held concern—so much like Alfred. Where was Alfred? Had the man abandoned him, too?

“I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

“Very well, Sir.” Charles moved back towards the front desk.

Tim saw black tinging along the edge of his vision, slowly closing in on him as he entered the elevator; he slid his access badge across the scanner and pushed the large PH button on the elevator dash. His memories were running together in his mind as his frame shook with heaving breaths. He stumbled into the elevator wall as a wave dizziness washed over him. He couldn’t remember how he managed to make it inside, couldn’t even remember leaving the elevator, and stumbling the few steps towards his apartment's entrance.

He crashed down onto the thick Peruvian carpet, a shooting pain sliding up his spine as he landed on his knees. He was dazed, had Dick’s attack only been hours before? Tim couldn’t get a breath, his lungs heaving. 

He crawled across the floor towards the kitchen and let out a sigh of relief when he entered the room. He stumbled up onto his feet despite the dizziness and pushed himself against the quartz countertop to control his body. His vision whited out for a second, his focus shooting away as he tilted sideways. The shock was hitting him fast.

He grabbed for the cabinet, the jeweled-green glass handle flashing in the light from the windows. He felt around for the paper bags he kept there, keening out a whine when he finally found one. As he fell to his knees, he pushed himself into the kitchen corner and pressed up against the room's fridge. He was unwilling to let anyone catch him unaware. 

He snapped the paper bag open with a flip of his hand, pressing it against his mouth as he took deep breaths in and out. The bag filled and emptied as he breathed, his heart still beating too fast in his chest. He couldn’t find control. He couldn’t calm himself.

Tim slipped down onto his side and pulled his knees up towards his chest; he continued to breathe in and out of the bag. He couldn’t calm down. His sight fogged again, his ears ringing as he curled even more into himself.

He wanted Bruce; he wanted Kon and Bart and Steph and Cass—he felt so alone. How would he recover from this when no one believed him? _And Dick!_ Had he pushed him too much? The grief of Bruce’s death too fresh in the man? Bruce’s death had been months ago, but even Tim could not compose himself in the wake of his grief.

If he faced the facts, Tim had always known Dick hid a violent, deep-seated need for control within himself. Tim had borne witness to the other side of Dick upon occasion, watched as he lost control, and almost beat their enemies to death. Froze at the site of violent reactions over Dick’s lack of control when Tim got injured. Now, with Dick wearing the mantle of Batman, the man had let loose the restraints that kept his real self bound. 

He could still feel Dick’s hand in his hair, tight grip controlling Tim—forcing him to submit. Shivers of pleasure slipped up his spine. His breath was slowly evening out. He touched his throat; Dick's phantom fingers were tight against his flesh. The vision of Dick staring at him as he leaned back against Bruce’s desk, like a predator sitting in wait for its prey. _‘Good boy…I’m so proud of you.'_ Dick’s words of praise repeatedly played in his head, burning a disk in his mind that would forever remain.

Easing out a breath, Tim relaxed his shoulders and dropped the paper bag to the floor. His head was still spinning, but his breathing had calmed. He sobbed out a breath in a rush, cursing himself for crying again, deep gulping breaths and ugly cries that filled the apartment. He wanted Bruce; he needed Bruce's gentle hands, warm hugs, and kind reassurance. He wanted the man who had served the role of a father in Tim’s life. 

He stumbled to his feet, listing to the side as he moved out of the kitchen. He balanced himself against cream-colored walls and slowly walked towards the living room and the oversized couch calling his tired body to sleep. Sleep. Tim needed to sleep, needed to hide away in a dreamless slumber. He fell onto the sofa, the camel-brown leather soft under his hands. 

His eyes were heavy, and every time he blinked, his eyelids became heavier and heavier. But before he could give entirely to the temptation of sleep, he needed to arm himself. Tim grabbed the two remotes off the glass coffee table; Gothan local news filled the screen when Tim clicked the power button on the tv remote—this would keep him updated when he woke up. He allowed himself to spread out along the couch; dropping the remote, Tim held on to the other, his finger hovering just above the large red button—the only button on the device.

He hesitated before clicking it, letting out a sigh of relief as the security system engaged. Thick steel, lead-lined shutters slid down the outside of the windows, the mechanisms whirring loud as they locked in place within impenetrable locks. A steel, lead-lined door slid from the wall by the entrance door. The protective metal rolled out across the door, landing with a solid thump against the other wall and would prevent anyone from entering.

Gaps in the wall across from him appeared, breaking apart and sliding back as computer monitors slid into place along the border. Views from security cameras across Gotham flared to life on the screens: the bat cave, GCPD, outside of the entrance to his apartment, the roof above, different rooms within Titans Tower, Bruce’s office inside Wayne Enterprises and the mansion.

All active systems in the apartment cut off, disconnecting him from the grid that allowed Oracle access. His secure access internet and control system activated with a short beep of: _“protection engaged.”_ No one would be able to contact him now, and no one would get near him. Not that anyone would try. There was no one left to try.

Tears once again ran down his cheeks as he succumbed to the arms of slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You are fantastic. Please don't hesitate to share your opinions. Come join me on [Tumblr](http://e-p-scape.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short. We transitioned back to the office after working from home for seven months, and I've had meetings nearly every other day these past two weeks. I couldn't balance my free time well, but I'm working on it. I'm hoping to have a new chapter posted every 2 weeks at the latest. The chapters will not be this short; I needed to post this one so it wouldn't seem like I'd left the story behind.

Tim hides himself away for weeks; he is still consumed by an embarrassing amount of fear, and he can't escape the confines of his apartment. It's difficult to focus, his hands are shaking, and his skin is fevered with the constant reminder of Dick's hands against his throat, his deep voice singing seductive praise in Tim's ears. 

He's mindless in his vigilant search for Bruce, and as of right now, he was heading into 73 hours without sleep, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper shower. He could no longer feel the exhaustion, barely noticed the constant tremble to his fingertips as he drank cup after cup of coffee. There was a reserved supply of food in the apartment--enough to last roughly four months of isolation, powdered eggs, and milk, a veteran's supply of MREs. There were containers of dried meals stacked by the dozen within the storage cubby of the master bedroom, but he wouldn't be in the country long enough to run through the supplies. 

He was getting close; he could feel it on the back of his neck as he dove deeper and deeper into his maddening quest. There were whisperings in the dark web, a man traveling through jumps of time. Tim couldn't breathe when he stared at the immeasurable presence of what Bruce had become upon his first entrance into the void of time. He towered above a prehistoric world, with rippling muscles and a face ravaged with the desire to kill. The images were foggy, barely existent in this day and age, but they were _real_ —paintings on a wall, yes, but they held truth.God, _Bruce_. He was there, but so, so violent. He looked wrong to Tim; his Batsuit stolen from him, the cape flaring wildly in the wind, and instead of the ever-present cowl sat a carved-out pig head and eyes coated in soot.

Tim was crazed; he could not stop, didn't _want_ to stop. His body swayed precariously as he reseated himself in the chair and shivered with an unsettling chill against his bare skin. Tim stopped wearing clothes; the minuscule task of getting dressed took too much time. Naked, and hunched over the expensive glass desk, Tim's eyes glazed as he flipped through documents of his findings.

There was not enough information; the database was too limited for Tim's needs, regardless of the deep web, he needed _more._ Needed books and historical texts. He had gathered all he could find weeks ago and presented all of his findings to Dick, but the evidence of Bruce cut off after the Puritan times. Even now, everything he saw was familiar, images he'd already discovered once before in his earlier search. 

His mind flashed to the traditional paintings that lined a corridor in Wayne Manor. During a long-winded explanation of what it meant to be a Wayne, Bruce indicated that the men in those portraits spanned an eon of the family. Tim wondered dimly, in the recesses of his mind, if those paintings were Bruce leaping through time. 

He shook his head, pushing away the thoughts that plagued him. Tim so badly wanted to turn to Kon for guidance and understanding. Kon would know what to do. _Bart_ would know how to fix everything. He wanted Cass, too, with her stilted speech, soothing regardless of the minimal words, and her gentle hands that only every touched him in kindness; the sisterly love he had never experienced before Bruce adopted him. 

He was frustrated, bitter, and angry with himself over the emotions of loneliness that plagued him. His family was dead—except Bruce, and all he could remember were the days of being just Timothy Drake, not Timothy Drake-Wayne. He had experienced the unbearable solitary confinement from birth; he did not want to think of the Drake mansion's emptiness and the endless hallways that never lead to him to warmth and affection. Until Dick quadruple somersaulted off the roof and into Tim's heart. 

He fought not to think of Dick, but the man lingered in his mind even while Tim was half dead and on the verge of collapsing due to lack of sleep. Dick's voice whispered in Tim's ear during his weakest moments, strong, phantom hands reached for Tim when he refilled his empty cup with coffee. Tim could not shake the repetitive fantasy that played in his mind, of Tim on his knees for Dick, his mind fogged and floaty, as Dick held him still in his grip. In those quiet moments of thought, Tim knew he would do anything for Dick; he would give the man complete control over him. 

Tim did not watch the news anymore; he felt too much guilt as Dick's brutality spread throughout Gotham's streets. He was destroying an image of safety and protection that Bruce has spent years building. Dick had killed a man--several actually, and Tim knew he was partially to blame. The belief was a feeling in his gut as he watched the playback on the television; every news station covered the aftermath. The death felt like a gift to Tim as if Dick was proving to Tim that he would protect him and do anything in his power to keep the streets of Gotham safe for him. 

Slitting a man's throat and stringing him up on the Gotham City Police Department walls did not make Tim feel safe and protected. Flattered, yes, but not the other things. Tim knew the victim was disgusting; he was a pedophile who extorted the young girls under his care. Yet, the image of blood dripping down the man's wrists as the grappling hook's wire cut into the decaying flesh, and the blood that spilled from the open throat to pool at the ground feet below, had vomit building at the back of Tim's throat. Everything was red, bleeding so deep he could not look away. He had closed off most of the cameras after Dick's first murder, except the one on the roof of his apartment and the one outside the hallway entrance. 

Tim had been desperate to catch a glimpse of Dick in the early moments of his seclusion, but as the violence progressed, the changes in Dick became more visible. It seemed the weight of the cape and cowl sat heavily on Dick's shoulders. Nightwing no longer dwelled in Dick's bones. The vigilante had completely vanished following Bruce's travel through time, and a new Batman had emerged onto the streets of Gotham. One so fierce and brutal that Tim did not know if Bruce's carefully cultivated image could recover. 

Tim knew Jason was probably pleased by the change in Batman's vendetta; he could remember how much Jason felt betrayed by Bruce for not killing the Joker after his slow torture and eventual killing of Jason. Tim had the scars on his body to prove the lasting effects of Jason's resentment. Indeed, being called _'replacement'_ or _'pretender'_ while avoiding a spray of wild bullets didn't hide anything either. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Tim's eyes drifted to the master bedroom and the bed illuminated by the bedside lights. He _was_ tired, and there was no more research to be found in this part of the country and on the internet. With a sigh, Tim shuffled up out of the chair, his body aching after hunching over the computer for so long. A shiver racked its way through his body as he stumbled down the hallway towards the bed. 

Collapsing naked on the bed, Tim dragged the covers up over his head and pulled his knees up to his chest, curling in on his side. His body was vibrating from the rapid drop of adrenaline, and Dick's voice was in his ear again: ' _Baby bird, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'_ He remembers Dick's face as he stood devastated and open in the headlights of Tim's car. The way his lips had mouthed the words over and over. _'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'_

Was he? 

Tim brushed his fingers against his neck, the gesture now a habit, and almost believed he felt Dick's fingers against his throat. He felt sick over the pleasure and enjoyment he took from Dick's gift of death. Disgusted over how the thought of Dick controlling him made Tim's knees week and heat build in his body. 

"I miss you," Tim spoke out loud, his voice cracked and strained from lack of use. 

Dick's voice played in his mind, a conversation that never took place: _'I'm here.'_

"I know."

_'You're mine, Timmy-bird, and I always claim what's mine.'_

"I know, Dick."

Sleep didn't come easy, but it was dreamless, and when he awoke in the morning, it was to the feel of Dick's lips against his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is Tim in Europe! Also, more dialogue!!!
> 
> Let's be friends: [Tumblr](http://e-p-scape.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me on [Tumblr](http://e-p-scape.tumblr.com/)


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